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The large man stepped from outside my peripheral vision and before I saw it coming, landed an open-handed blow across my cheekbone and nose. He struck me so hard I immediately felt the hot trickle of blood dripping from one nostril. My head throbbed and my face felt as if it were on fire. Nausea surged again. I was sure I had a concussion, maybe more than one.
“Now,” Cuchillo said, putting his mouth to my ear again. “You will not move away from me again, or Raoul will teach you to remain still. Will you be good?”
I nodded, the metallic taste of blood on my tongue as it dripped over my lips, onto the gag, and seeped into the material. If they ended up breaking my nose, I’d suffocate to death with the gag in place.
“Bueno.” He caressed my hair and I wanted to scream. Afraid of earning another hit, I closed my eyes and focused on breathing instead of how close he was or how his fingers felt like snakes slithering across my skull. Cuchillo’s lips brushed against the shell of my ear and his hot breath blew across my skin. I shivered in revulsion. “Look at the camera, puta barata. This is for your Jefe. You could call it a… special gift.”
My family moved to Texas when I was nine, and I never bothered to learn Spanish. Until now, I never regretted the decision. I knew the words Cuchillo used were insulting, I just didn’t know how.
Raoul’s huge hand shot out and grabbed my chin. I yelped behind the gag. He squeezed harder and tears leaked from my eyes.
“I said look at the camera. Are you estúpida?” Cuchillo snarled.
Fear gripping my insides, I shook my head. Thought loathe to do it, I obeyed, focusing through blurry tears to stare at the laptop while watching the girl on the screen do the same. Raoul pulled his hand back and stood to the side. Jesus, he almost broke my jaw. Cuchillo wound his fingers into my hair and yanked, hard. I cried out and arced my throbbing neck to lessen the burning pain on my scalp. I swore he was about to pull all my hair out by the roots. Cuchillo’s other hand slipped down my bruised throat while he continued whispering in my ear.
“Such beautiful pale flesh, don’t you think? My mark is already showing here.” He pushed a finger into the swollen, aching flesh where he choked me and another scream tore from my chest. “You will look even better when I cover your body in marks.”
El Cuchillo stepped back and Raoul came forward. I shrieked into the gag and flailed wildly within the confines of the ropes. Raoul held my head still and glared. The pure evil in his eyes stopped me cold.
“I see you are learning,” Cuchillo chuckled. “Maybe not so estúpida after all.”
Raoul untied the gag and removed it. I gasped and swallowed the bloody spit that had gathered in my mouth. My chest heaved as I panted and reveled in the cool air that filled my lungs. It was difficult to breathe with one nostril clogged and the gag in my mouth, so I took advantage of the opportunity to inhale unencumbered while it was an option.
“I like you better this way, cusca. Your beautiful screams will add so much drama to my little film.”
He stepped in front of me, his dark eyes shining, and began.
* * *
A hand brushed my arm and I screamed, only no sound came out. I opened my eyes, but they were so swollen, I could barely see through the tiny slits.
“Miri, stop. Don’t fight. It’s me.”
This time, I recognized the woman’s voice. A voice I hadn’t heard in almost a year. Only… it was impossible. It couldn’t be her, could it?
“Cat?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes. It’s Cat, Miri. How did you end up here?”
“Me?” I rasped. “What about you?” I tried to sit up and groaned.
“Let me help you.” Cat assisted until I leaned heavily on pillows propped against a twisted iron headboard.
“Where are we?”
“We’re in a bedroom in a house somewhere. I don’t know where. I don’t even know what city we’re in.” Cat’s tone of voice was flat, unaffected, as if she’d either accepted her fate or didn’t particularly care what happened next.
This wasn’t the Cat I knew. My Cat was a fighter. Except for the deep depression she suff
ered from her stepfather’s abuse, I’d never known Cat to be anything but optimistic. She was the one who got us an apartment. She was the one who said we could get jobs and make it on our own. It might have been my idea to leave home, but Cat was the one who made me believe we could someday have the life we wanted.
“Jag…” I sobbed. “They hurt him.”
“Who?”
“Jag. He’s my…” My what? My boyfriend? My drug dealer? My savior? I didn’t know. “He’s my friend. They hurt him when they took me.”
One good thing came out of the videos. If Cuchillo was sending them to Jag, it meant he was still alive. They didn’t kill him in the parking lot of the garage.
